Late January- early February, 300 AC
He dreamed he was flying, soaring above the clouds. When he landed it was before the walls of Winterfell, and Robb was there to greet him. The crown upon his head glimmered in the summer sun. Grey Wind hovered at Robb's heels, his yellow eyes fixed on the pale direwolf by Jon's side.
"Lord Commander," Robb said sternly, hiding a smile.
"The King in the North," Jon replied. Then Robb was embracing him, and Grey Wind and Ghost were romping like pups. In the distance he could hear the rest of his brothers and sisters laughing in the godswood.
He dreamed he was choking, his face pressed into damp wool. Someone turned his head to the side and Jon gasped as his lungs filled with air and his nose with the scent of blood. Why was he lying on his belly? He tried to rise, only to scream as his back blazed with agony, dozens of hot knives searing at his flesh.
"Bloody bastards," someone muttered.
"Hush, Pyp. Hand me the potion Maester Aemon left for him."
Cool metal pressed against Jon's lips, and he drank from the flask. The potion was so thick and chalky he nearly gagged. Water, I need water.
When he awoke someone was spooning cool honeywater into his mouth. He gulped the water greedily and moaned when it was taken away.
"Will he live?" Ygritte? No, she was dead, slain by an arrow between her breasts. The girl who spoke was no spearwife, but she was a wildling. He almost knew her...
"The maester thinks so," Sam answered, and then Jon knew he must be dreaming still. Sam had died at Craster's Keep, abandoned by the brothers who should have taken him with them.
"You should put snow on his back," the girl whispered. "That's what Birra always did for us after a whipping."
And Jon remembered. He remembered being dragged from his cell by Eastwatch men and thrown before Ser Alliser Thorne and Janos Slynt. He remembered standing in Mance Rayder's tent, caught like a rabbit in a trap. Slay Mance Rayder, and the wildlings would gut him for an turncloak. Return to warn the Night's Watch of the Horn of Winter, and Ser Alliser would hang him for an oathbreaker.
He remembered the foulness of his task crawling under his skin like maggots until he could bear it no longer and the truth burst from his lips.
He remembered Mance's knife at his throat and Dalla's sharp reproach. "A crow he may be, but an honest one," she'd said. By then Jon was past fear. Even as the cool steel nipped at his skin, even as the muscle in his leg throbbed where Ygritte's arrow had pierced him, he looked Mance Rayder in the eye and challenged him to single combat. Mance had laughed as he denied him, until Dalla cried "it's time" and water flooded from under her furs.
He remembered Val running for the midwife while Varamyr dragged him to Harma Dogshead, his shadowcat hissing at his feet. Harma spat with disgust when told he was to be returned to the Wall alive and in one piece. Then Varamyr relayed the rest of Mance's wishes and her mouth twisted in a terrible mockery of a smile.
He remembered the rope chafing on his wrists as they bound him between two trees. Jon thought the cold wind stinging against his bare skin was torture, but one crack of Harma's whip had taught him better. After the fifth lash he fainted and they tossed cold water in his face, the droplets freezing on his cheeks as Harma resumed her bloody work. It would not have been so bad had the flogging been quick, but Harma seemed to wait an eternity between blows, as though she wanted him to savor the pain of each lash.
He remembered Tormund bellowing, and someone wrapping him in his black cloak and setting him in the cage. He could hear a baby wailing as he waited, naked and shivering beneath his cloak. By the time the cage finally began to move the wind was howling, shaking the cage like a terrier with a rat, slamming Jon's back against the metal bars as some dying animal shrieked in pain. Help me, someone help me, please. Mother, please.
Soft lips brushed his forehead; a pale hand smoothed damp hair away from his face. Suddenly his back was cold, and he heard the crunch of snow as someone patted at his dressings. He slept and woke and slept again, then woke to sweat dripping down his nose. That was odd. For the first time since he reached the Wall, he felt warm.
"As I said, he has a fever, my lords." Maester Aemon's voice was mild, but Jon could hear the iron underneath. "Questioning him would be fruitless. When the fever has broken and he can stay awake for more than five minutes, you shall be the first to know."
Jon could hear the whisper of the maester's robes and the clack of his cane against the stone floors, then all was quiet.
"Snow must live." Bowen Marsh sounded afraid. "The raven—"
"Bugger the raven," Ser Alliser snapped.
"We need the men and supplies," Marsh fretted. "Mance Rayder knows how few we are; we cannot hold the Wall much longer, not with wildlings and mammoths digging at every abandoned keep. Lord Tywin offers only promises, while Stark marches north. Three ships full of grain and pickled meat he sends to Eastwatch, and more to come. If his brother dies—"
"Snow's a traitor." Ser Alliser snapped. A thick finger prodded at Jon's back, yet he barely felt it. Milk of the poppy, he thought dizzily.
"These wounds suggest otherwise. I marked them well when the maester was changing the dressing; over thirty strokes. Aemon says he would have died if they'd scourged him much longer, or if that whitebeard hadn't shouted at the winch men."
The world swam before his eyes, and Jon knew no more.
He woke to men shouting and the deep cry of a horn.
AaaHOOOOOoooooooo, aaaHOOOOoooooooo.
Its voice was ancient, strange and sad. None of our horns make such a sound. For a moment Jon's heart stopped as he saw it again, eight feet of gleaming black horn banded with gold and graven with runes. How long before the Wall fell? Would it crumble like an avalanche in the mountains, or would it melt and wash them all away?
He slept, and dreamed of Mance's tent, of a smoldering brazier and Dalla in her pile of furs. "It's time," she panted, her great belly shaking, but blood came pouring out of her instead of water, a torrent of blood that rushed over him like a wave. The coppery taste flooded his mouth and as he choked he saw Dalla growing younger, her eyes turning grey, her hair turning dark. It was Arya who was bleeding to death, a crown of roses blue as frost in her hair. He reached for her, weeping, but the fire in the brazier roared, sending up great red wings of flame that swept her away.
"Get out! GET OUT!"
"I just wanted to see how Snow is doing," a voice answered.
"As if you cared, you— you kinslayer," Pyp spat. There was a long pause, then a laugh. The laugh was familiar, but the strain beneath it was new.
"Didn't your big ears hear anything when you swore your vows? All our crimes are washed away. What was yours— did you bugger your sister? Steal gold from corpses as ugly as you?"
"Watch yourself," Grenn growled.
"Watch myself?" Theon laughed. "What, will that trembling sack of suet sit on me? I'm so frightened. It's a wonder that wildling slut hasn't been crushed beneath him— or does the randy wench prefer to be on top? I've a mind to visit her of a night myself; those ripe teats would be—"
There was a terrible crash, and the thud of a body hitting the floor. Theon gasped as though he'd been punched in the stomach, and Pyp and Grenn were cursing.
"Sam, no—"
"Leave off—"
There was a crunching sound. Jon's muscles ached as he turned his head. Theon lay on the floor, blood streaming from his nose as Sam pummeled him about the shoulders. Pyp and Grenn were yanking at Sam, trying to pull him back.
Jon's muscles screamed as he pushed himself up on his arms. He ignored the pain, forcing himself to rise to his knees, then set a foot on the floor. When he stood up straight the wounds on his back burst into flames and a strangled cry escaped his throat. Everyone turned to look at him, eyes wide.
"I'll kill him myself," Jon rasped.
And then he fainted.
